Blood, sweat, and tears

[This is an unpublished entry from Feb 2011 that is now finally finished and published, May 2011] 

I wake up to my morning call last week sensing that a system crash is imminent. It is the second day in a row I get up before dawn, put on my hospitality face, and go to work anticipating another day that consists of rushing from the second I board to the moment I haul my body out the aircraft. Before this day were countless similar days and weeks that, in reminiscence, seem to merge and compile into a vertical slide down an infinite chute where the only sound of time ticking came from my body's time bomb.

This downward slip was rarely interrupted by sufficient proper rest, made worse by poor quality sleep. The last few months saw two seasonal peaks, where Christmas and Chinese New Year arrived practically unseparated this year. Coincidentally, I flew record hours during this period of time, with my total number of flying hours well above the monthly average. Looking back, I see a nebulous mosiac of thousands upon thousands of faces I have come across within the matter of weeks - holiday makers, boisterous tour groups, overseas students, all too many children and infants, and hordes of mainland Chinese. Somewhere in this mosaic I vaguely see myself, eye circles deepening.

And crash I did.

I collapse in bed after a 12-hour flight, jolting awake after only three hours to a missed call thinking it was an alarm for my next flight. Sometimes I see myself at work in my sleep. I see the onset of depression. The stress of this race against time inflight every day - of handling full-load passengers, of exceeding duty free sales target, of winning our supervisors' fancy - has all but little by little wringed me into a tight rope so tense and thin it finally snapped. My dwindling physical health, as indicated by insomnia, a frequently upset stomach, confused body clock and perpetual fatigue, along with my crippled sanity, have reached its threshold - I could no longer go on like this.

Yes, I have bumped up my bank savings during this period; I have achieved record sales and reached new heights in my career as a Elite Sales Team member. But this did not come without buckets of blood, sweat, and tears. And how many passengers - sitting in their seat receiving their meals and drinks from a graceful flight attendant - ever think of us as more than just waiters and waitresses going on holiday?

Hong Kong welcoming the new decade

[Any thought or comments? Share with me!] 

What juice?

Sometimes passengers do come up with the most nonsensical... requests. They could be entertaining at times, but usually so stupid that they make you scratch your head wondering if he is serious or is just playing funny. Next thing you know you will be rushing back to the galley sharing with your colleagues what a moronic thing you just heard. 

On my flight back from Bangkok, a Pakistani vegetarian passenger is upset that he is not given his drink of preference while consuming his special meal, which as an industry-wide practice is served prior to commencement of the regular meal service. By the time my cart arrives at his row, he has nearly finished his meal. I politely offer him some coffee, tea, or other beverages.

"Why do I have to have my meal first?!" The passenger blurts out furiously, "Why can't I be served with the drinks?! Am I supposed to have my drink after my meal?!" Whoa. Point taken. Due to a very short flying time and the sheer number of special meals on this flight (this flight connects from Colombo), our flight purser did not take drink orders to be delivered at the same time with the special meals. Instead, a glass of water or juice is first given and passengers are offered second drinks as our carts arrive.

Slightly taken aback by the passenger's reaction, I empathsize and explain, and once again offer him our selection. What more am I to do? Still raging, the passenger glares and asks with the top of his lungs what juices we serve. 
- "Apple juice, orange juice, and tomato juice."
- "What?" As if in disbelief, he demands again, "what juice you have? Is that all there is?" 
Alright, no time and patience for this nonsense. Just get the drink, move on. To make myself clear, I repeat, "apple juice, orange juice, or tomato juice (smile). Which one would you like, sir?"
-"You don't have strawberry juice??"

Strawberry juice?
Okay, mango juice, guava juice, even breakfast juice I've heard from passengers before. That I can understand and forgive, especially from Filipino passengers who are accustomed to the former two in their country and... maybe Aussies for the latter one. But 'strawberry juice'?? I know it is delicious but does this moron really think he would ever get strawberry juice on an airline, and in Economy Class? I pass him his orange juice and move on.

[Any thought or comments? Share with me!] 

Feature Photographs: Zaanse Schaans, Netherlands

Step back into the 18th century in this picturesque 
living neighborhood that defies imagination

Industrial mills quietly spinning along the river

Where endless fields and waterways meet the clear blue skies

March 2009

It's Happy Hour Hell all the way up from Down Under

There ought to have been some lounge music, a giant projection screen, perhaps some sombreros, or even some artificial fog. TV screens there are many; but the only fog seen is probably in the form of steam rising from my head.

Ding. 
- "Can I have a Scotch with soda, please."
- "Certainly. I will be right back." 
Ding. 
- "Yes, how may I help you, sir?
- "Yeah, I'd like to have a Whiskey with coke," the man turns to his neighbor, "you gettin' anything?" He pulls out the wretched menu card and runs his finger through the list of spirits that really should not be there.
- "Give me a Cognac."

I tread back to the galley, my mind regurgitating orders after orders of cocktails like a broken printer. I line out a stack of plastic glasses, unlatch the carts and retrieve the bottles one by one. Ding. Before I even get to the ice drawer, the attendant bell chimes again. Ding. My colleague returns from the cabin, herself with a handful more orders. Ding. Another bottle of Chivas Regal emptied. Ding. I poke my head out and squint at the call light indicator. Row 62. Again. I swear he's already had his fourth drink. Ding. I take in a deep breath. Patience... I remind myself.

With a tray balancing five cocktails, I make my way out into the cabin. It is late afternoon in Melbourne; no one seems to be sleeping. 260 passengers in coach, 90 percent Aussie, 100 percent alcoholic, 2 cabin crew. The rest are on their rest shift. Two pairs of hands and two pairs of throbbing legs that have trampled back and forth the 40-rows-long cabin nonstop for the past four hours. That's roughly 10 continuous laps around a football field - speedwalking.

Ding. I strain my memory trying to match each drink with its owner. It doesn't help that this horde of middle-aged men all wear the same grey polo and black trousers. They are supposedly a group of police officers or something connecting to another city for training. Disciplined or not, to me, they all look like any other monsters who are obviously not into sobriety and are having too much fun with the idea of all-day 'free-flow' booze. 

Ding.
- "What can I get for you?" My question is becoming as much a rhetorical question as my passengers' own. Somewhere in my mind I am thinking of my meal - all cold by now - if only I could just eat something.
- "Can I have a Gin Tonic?" Rhetorical question.
- "Sure." I try to catch my breath and feign a smile that is fast fading.
- "Hey, Rob," he taps on his mate across the aisle, "Gin Tonic?" He nods. "Make it three - one for me, one for him, another for him." As if he's buying everyone a round.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Oh, the lovely chime that never fails to strike a nerve. Two Bloody Marys, three Gin Tonics, a Brandy - oh, and what? A Campari Soda with a dash of orange juice. "What's next," I roll my eyes at my equally exhausted colleague, "Sex on the Beach?" I start understanding how Aussies manage to survive on weekends when all shops, malls, food courts, even supermarkets, close at five - if they open at all. They probably stay home with their stash of booze.

I never consider Australian flights to be the most arduous of all. That is in large part due to the fact that Aussies generally carry a friendly, complaisant attitude emanating from the laid back culture from Down Under. As a result, they are relatively easy-going and polite. But here is the twist. Aussies are also extremely heavy drinkers. The difference between flights taking off midnight and those departing midday is that rather than carrying loads of sleepy travellers, we have a stadium full of alcohol-thirsty beasts eager for an all-day Happy Hour 30,000 feet from Up Above.

And for better or for worse, they don't get drunk.

When I signed up for this job, bartending was hardly the first image that came to mind. I am only a few tumbler shakes and a couple of juggling tricks away. Long before our second meal service commences, the entire cabin's stock of red and white wines have been depleted. No surprise, considering that each passenger is capable of downing a bottle each, in addition to a month's worth of cocktails. 

Growing increasingly weary, my colleague and I begin to double - sometimes even triple - the shots, deriving pleasure from each drop of vengeance, only in the hopes that a stronger drink could postpone the next. By the end of the flight, nothing sounds better than a Long Island Iced Tea. But I will call it a day. Enough spirits for me.

[Any thought or comments? Share with me!]